The Conspirator's Complex
by shrunkpunk
Summary: Sequel to The Conformity Conspiracy. It's been three years since Dylan left his friends and South Park behind to join Mike's band and become famous. A trip back home leaves him shocked with what has changed and what has stayed the same.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This story is the sequel to "The Conformity Conspiracy." That fic was written before "Goth Kids 3: Dawn of the Posers" so I went with the fandom names for the characters. Because those characters with those names are so cemented in my head I'm going to stick with them for this fic. So Michael=Ethan, Pete=Dylan, and Ferkle=Georgie. If that's hugely annoying you, then you can definitely copy this into Word and do a Search and Replace…otherwise sorry! Anyway, Mike Makowski is a huge character in this fic and Mike and Michael are too similar to not confuse me in an undertaking like this.

**Three years later.**

"_You don't ask people with knives in their stomachs what would make them happy; happiness is no longer the point. It's all about survival; it's all about whether you pull the knife out and bleed to death or keep it in…"—Nick Hornby_

**x. **

The edge of Mike's iPhone poked Dylan in the shoulder for the fifth time and he was sure he could make out his companion's whiny voice through his headphones. He closed his eyes tighter and tried to return to the dream where he was in the auditorium of his high school, it was rehearsals for the talent show and he'd forgotten his amp. But Ethan said he'd found it in the pockets of his coat. He didn't believe him and but when he reached his hand inside the pockets went on forever.

It wasn't until a headphone was pulled back from his ear that he opened an eye. "We're not possibly there yet," he mumbled, cutting Mike off. From the lack of kinks in his neck and shoulders, he hadn't been asleep long.

"We're not in LA." Mike looked nervously over his shoulder at the flight attendant. He opened his mouth to continue then closed it again before sighing.

Dylan turned towards the window. Over the runway fat snowflakes whizzed past. He stretched his shoulders, "I didn't know we had an adjoining flight," he said as he stood to grab his carry-on from the overhead. It was hard to keep straight whether the days meant they were touching down somewhere or taking off. He was just glad he wasn't the one with the microphone on stage that had to remember the name of the city they were in. "Come on," yawned, "let's see if Harbucks has inseminated this airport too."

He wrinkled his nose at the businessmen in tailored suits who were already barking orders into their phones as they shoved their way out of first class. "Fucking pricks," he mumbled as Mike trailed behind.

He was glad when Mike told him before they'd boarded that other members of the band had caught another flight. After the lackluster performances of Bloodrayne and Vladimir the record label had assigned them a seasoned bassist and drummer. This essentially punched a hole through whatever semblance they'd had of being a "real" band. Mike insisted he liked them both but Dylan could see through the taller boy's pained smiles when they pointed out he was flat. They were just studio musicians who looked good in skinny jeans and eyeliner. Anyway, it didn't matter either way; it was just business in a world he'd been more than accepted into. No one had been rushing to replace him. Just the opposite. The label bombarded him with "gifts" of free guitars, brand new amps, and a budget deep enough to afford any overpriced Manhattan haircut. Although he still hadn't come to term with the band name, "1,000 Years of Solitude." It was some trend in the industry of making respected works of literature into commercial emo band names that looked cool screen-printed across t-shirts.

"Denver?" Dylan said flatly blinking at the familiar murals on the walls. The last time he'd seen any inch of the state had been three years ago when he'd flipped it off from 40,000 feet above the ground. "So we have an adjoining flight?"

"No," Mike said simply, walking towards the Harbucks like this was a casual thing that Dylan needed to stop questioning.

"Mike, don't choose this moment to maintain a socially acceptable level of conversation." He was too used to tuning out the singer's need to talk his ear off on the tour bus. Anything from the distinctions in green tea blends to how "enthusiastic" the last audience had been were up for debate. Admittedly though, he'd seen less of his bandmate lately, finding Mike in his bunk with a drawing pad propped up on his knees.

"We're here because…" Mike looked around like maybe a convincing lie would present itself on the menu at Cinnabon. "That's where our tickets were to."

Dylan waited for some further explanation but Mike was busy ordering a drink. "Okay, whatever," Dylan said, irritation working its way up his chest, "I'm getting a ticket home then." He watched for a reaction from Mike but the taller boy was either calling Dylan's bluff or genuinely indifferent. He couldn't decide which was more obnoxious.

Maybe he should just really do it and go home. Home now meant a loft apartment overlooking a Chinese restaurant called Mr. Wonton in Brooklyn. Though he'd barely spent more than three weeks there back-to-back. Once their third single played during an episode of some shit reality show on MTV their popularity had taken off. The label had been quick to organize a tour, and he'd barely touched the ground since.

As he glanced at the signs for baggage claim his neck felt hot with a feeling that had gotten too familiar in the passing years. He turned around and saw two teenage girls with their phones aimed at the back of Mike's head. Until that moment he hadn't really considered the fact that they'd have fans in Colorado. He basically viewed it as a black hole on a map of the United States. As annoyed as he was by Mike's standoffish behavior, he didn't want to wait for his next flight amid a huddle of fourteen-year-olds with braces and Misfits shirts they'd blindly plucked from the racks of Hot Topic.

"Come on," he pulled on the edge of Mike's jacket as the barista handed him his tea. Dylan tried to brainstorm some place that'd offer more privacy than the food-court type area they currently occupied. Typically they had a least one bodyguard with them on their tours. But no one was expecting them here, or at least he hadn't thought so.

"What's going on?" He whispered harshly, "tell me."

Mike sighed and shrugged away from Dylan, walking over towards an observation window before sitting on one of the empty rows of seats in front of it.

"I'm _sorry_," Mike said dramatically. He took a sip of his tea and cringed when it burnt his tongue. "Mr. Tweak is going to lose his coffee shop. He wrote me a letter a month ago just thanking for me making it popular enough through our YouTube videos that fans from all over Colorado have visited. That's helped pay the bills the last couple months. But I thought we could do better than that, we could play a benefit show. I figured the two of us could do an acoustic set. Anyway, I owe it to him for letting me play there when I was just a skinny teenager obsessed with Edward Cullen, you know? It's finally a chance for some good to come of _any_ of this." Mike shook his head and took another sip. "Anyway, he's been selling tickets for the past month. I thought if I gave you too much time to think about it that you'd just back out."

Dylan knew Mike was right about that much. "You know how I feel about going to South Park," he said slowly. He already felt like a dick just wanting to say no. Why was doing the "right" thing always so important.

"But it's not like you're going home or anything, you can get a hotel room and catch a flight out in a day or so."

"Mike, it's like five fucking days before Christmas, how am I going to get a flight out of here?"

Mike sighed and leaned back, undefeated, just looking annoyed to still be talking. "Will it really kill you to do this?"

Dylan was taken aback. Mike was never this serious. His typical light-hearted sarcasm was replaced with a flat depressed tone as he watched a plane slowly backing into position on the runway outside.

"Okay whatever," he said, just wanting Mike to stop looking so dead. "Yeah, when is it?"

"Tomorrow," Mike turned his head away from the flash of someone's camera and ran a hand over his face.

"Come on then, let's get our bags and get to a hotel."

**xx. **

Mike had been so quiet on the ride to the hotel, and then at the last minute before checking-in decided he was going to stay with his parents instead. Dylan had been left alone with the mini-bar and ridiculously plush king-sized bed. He could still feel the burn in his stomach from the cheap vodka he'd pushed himself into sleep with. He was almost happy when Mike finally called to say he was outside in his shitty old Civic.

He'd been glad when Mr. Tweak had finally stopped thanking them for doing this and he'd been able to go over the set-list. "Thanks for doing this," Mike said coolly, stirring the honey in his tea, "I could see the look on your face on the drive into town. But it won't even be South Park people here. Just our fans, you know, probably from all over the state."

Dylan could tell that Mike was worried that he was thinking about his old friends showing up. But he wasn't. None of them would answer his phone calls, much less pay money for a ticket to see him. He had to admit that after the first year he'd made the decision to cut himself off from them entirely. The last he'd heard from any of them had been a drunken phone call from Henrietta where she'd informed him that he was a poser who was a puppet in the "the corporate machine." He'd been left with the impression that he was nothing more than an object of ridicule for the three of them. It's not as though he wasn't aware he was part of some manufactured poppy emo band. It's just that he wrote good music, it paid all his bills and then some, and it got him out of South Park. And if they couldn't handle that, well fuck them.

He sipped his coffee and waved to a fan who covered her mouth and muffled a scream. There'd been a line of girls stretching around the block since they'd arrived. Mike agreed to sit down with a reporter from the local newspaper and was currently professing the value of supporting local businesses. They didn't have much set-up since it was an acoustic show, and Dylan rearranged the stool he was given to sit on. He was strangely nervous for the doors to open; even though they'd sold out packed arenas it was different today because it was South Park.

He tried not to think of all the familiar buildings looming around him like ghosts not needing his acknowledgment. Still standing with the same expressions in their windows. The diner, the high school, Henrietta's house. His own house.

He needed another cup of coffee.

After the set Mike had insisted on staying around and signing autographs for all the local fans. How he managed to look so excited and cheerful in his pictures with them was beyond Dylan's comprehension. He slipped away to the back alley for a cigarette not anticipating the advanced stalking skills of a bunch of 9th graders. A group of ten of them surrounded him, backing him into the freezing cement of the building. His trendy jacket wasn't a match for Colorado winters, and he briefly marveled at the fact that he used to go to school in nothing more than a dress shirt on days that were far colder.

After several, surely unflattering shots of him glowering with his head pressed against grinning girls he managed to dislodge himself, looking back into the still packed coffee house. Mr. Tweak was blasting their singles on repeat, and he was sure Mike was in there somewhere glad to "give back" or whatever. Typically at shows, Dylan's strategy was to drink just enough to take the reality of away but not enough to forget what his fingers were meant to be doing. It was a balance he'd struck the first couple months of touring. After the show he'd duck out into the bus before Mike was even done professing his thanks to the audience in the microphone. It's not that Dylan was ungrateful; it was just that he was indifferent. It was a job. Cashiers at Target didn't stay after closing to sign autographs for all the people they rang out. It was probably the same.

Even as he edged down the sidewalk away from the girls, they were looking like they might follow. He didn't exactly know how to explain that just because Mike was charismatic and charming and always knew what to say to everyone didn't mean he was. Just the opposite. His feet kicked in front of him, taking his down side streets of South Park he hadn't thought about in years. He pulled the hood of his jacket over his hair. It was cherry red and too distinctive, freshly dyed by some woman in Park Slope and fell artfully over his eyes at an angle he'd achieved fine on his own with a pair of kitchen scissors when he was ten.

He tried not to think it was strange that he found himself at the edge of Benny's parking lot. He wished there were cabs or subways or anonymity that the big cities he was used to provided. But there was only bright white air, a sparsely filled parking lot, and him. He sat on the curb, considering walking back and demanding a ride back to the hotel from Mike. But the thought of annoying his already emotionally unstable bandmate seemed like a worse idea than grabbing a coffee and waiting it out. Those kids had to have bedtimes. Mike would want to leave eventually.

As he opened the door he anticipated that his friends would be sitting inside at their usual table, unchanged. But the only thing unchanged was the diner itself: ceiling fans were spinning over stained tables; half full salt shakers were stuck in rings of coffee. He took a seat on the opposite side of the restaurant and faced away from the door, feeling safety in the move. He hunkered down behind the menu, considering the thought of actually ordering food. Who knew if they were still in South Park anyway? Ethan would have moved closer to his job in Denver and Henrietta would have been into her second year of college now.

"That's probably the first time I've ever seen you flip through a menu here," Georgie said, leaning against the edge of the booth. He closed the notepad he'd been holding and slipped it back into his apron.

Dylan shifted in his seat, feeling the strong urge to both get up and hug his younger friend and climb under the table at the same time. Luckily Georgie flopped down onto the seat next to him and reached an arm over his shoulder, "I thought I might see you—but I wasn't sure—with everything going on at Mr. Tweaks…" Georgie pulled back and smiled broadly at him, "You look so cool, when did you get _so cool_?"

Dylan eyed his friend with a more careful smile. Georgie must have shot up two or three inches since he'd seen him last, and was taller than Dylan now. He was still thin and boyish looking, with bright blue eyes and too many piercing in his face.

"So you work here?" he asked, because the obvious stupid questions were the only ones pounding against his head. He'd honestly talked himself out of expecting to see any of them. It was almost like watching a horror movie and then constantly having to remind yourself in the hours afterwards that nothings hiding in your bedroom closet.

"Yep," Georgie said and having been reminded of the fact glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the booths. But there was only a middle-aged woman bent over a huge textbook, oblivious of the world around her. "I'm trying to put some money aside for next year."

"Next year?"

"College," Georgie said slowly, "I'm graduating high school in June."

"That's right," Dylan tried to make it sound like he'd remembered, like he thought of Georgie from time to time. And the truth was that he did…but not this Georgie, not taller-than-him Georgie with a job and a savings account.

"It's not so much for me," he continued, tapping his fingers on Dylan's menu, "I'm just going to Denver Community and my parents are paying the tuition. It's Ike. He has a full ride to Columbia. I need a plane ticket fund. You know?" Georgie shook his head and stood up, "Hold on, you want coffee, I'll be right back."

Dylan blinked and watched him disappear into the back. Was it possible that a freshman relationship lasted three homecoming dances in his absence? It did more than put his and Ethan's splattered attempt at a relationship to shame.

"Here you go," Georgie set the mug in front of him. "So," he continued, leaning against the booth across from Dylan's. "How long are you in town for?"

"I don't know," Dylan ducked his head down, "until I can get a flight out. This wasn't exactly something I planned."

Georgie stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. "It's so weird to see you and Mike on TV. The video for your new song…what was it called…?"

"13 Illusions."

"Yeah that one."

"Yeah," Dylan said, sipping his coffee.

Georgie was quiet for a minute.

"Are you going to…see anyone else?"

Dylan wanted to point out that he hadn't exactly stopped by expecting to see Georgie.

"I don't think I'd have time for that."

"Right," Georgie said standing up straighter now as if he was seeing Dylan clearly for the first time. "Did…you want to order anything? Sorry I guess I should have asked."

"No, I'm good." Dylan said feeling the three years of distance between them all at once.

Georgie looked over at the door thoughtfully for a minute. "My shift is almost over, don't worry about the coffee, it's on me." Dylan opened his mouth to protest but Georgie cut him off. "Just do me a favor and stay here for another couple minutes. Ethan is picking me up and I really think you should say hi."

Instinctually Dylan turned his head towards the door and then looked out the window at the parking lot. Georgie was staring at him with a torn frown and he had to remind himself that Georgie was not the child of his divorce. He wished the pit of his stomach wasn't immediately sour and sick from the twos sips of coffee he'd managed since he sat down.

"Oh, I don't think that Ethan—"

"Yes he would," Georgie untied his apron and threw it behind the counter. "Don't look so panicked, Jesus. It's just Ethan"

Dylan watched in slow motion as a beat up Jetta pulled into the parking lot. He started scooting out of the booth and walking backwards towards the back of the diner. He felt like every cliché action that horror movie heroines fumbled through were suddenly all based on fact. And the thought occurred to him that he'd couldn't stop comparing all of this to a slasher flick. Maybe that was something he should talk to someone about. A therapist. Maybe immediately, he should go back to the hotel and call a hotline. Georgie followed him, threw an arm over his shoulders, and walked him—somewhat forcibly towards the entrance.

"Georgie, really, this is a bad idea. Please, just go outside and meet him."

"No, he'll come in," Georgie said calmly, a stark opposite of Dylan's frantic whispers. "For Dev's lunch."

Dylan thought about making a run for the kitchen. Surely there was door that led to the back of the diner. He'd seen the cooks outside, sitting on milk crates smoking while hunched over their cellphones. He'd already ducked out the back of one business today, what was another.

Georgie's fingers clawed into his shoulder. "Don't be a dick Dylan, we've _all_ missed you."

He unconsciously leaned closer to Georgie as the door swung open. Ethan wasn't looking at them. He was trying to get the one-year old in his arms to let go of a handful of his curls. "Can you grab her?" He said to Georgie while he gently tugged at the chubby fist. The little girl looked sleepily devious and rested her head against Ethan's black coat.

Georgie didn't move, maybe out of fear that Dylan would, and when he got no response Ethan glanced up.

His eyebrows disappeared under his bangs. The little girl shifted in his arms.

"Oh," Ethan said, "hey."

"Hey."

"Yeah, Dylan is in town!" Georgie said too enthusiastically to make up for the fact that all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.

"I see that," Ethan said, the corners of his lips pointed down

"Anyway he said he could come to my birthday party tomorrow night."

A haze in Dylan's head tried to remember about agreeing to anything at all. When had Georgie grown up and become manipulative. It was unfair that denying he'd agreed to any such thing would make him seem like a liar.

Ethan ran his eyes over Dylan, making the musician feel ridiculous for walking around in $300 jeans and custom-ordered Doc Martins.

"_Cool_," Ethan said. It felt like a sarcastic appraisal of Dylan's entire existence.

"Let me write down the address for you," Georgie said, finally letting go of Dylan. He wished he'd come back. The side of him that Georgie had been pressed against now felt vulnerable and cold.

"So," Dylan had to choke the words out, "you have a daughter?"

Ethan walked towards the highchairs stacked next to the register and drug one over to a table. "Hah. Not exactly." After he'd positioned the little girl into the highchair she turned around to look at Dylan with wide brown eyes. "Don't you recognize that demanding stare? She's Henrietta's." Ethan paused for a moment, "and Damiens'."

"Right," Dylan said, relieved from a feeling of loss he didn't know he was still capable of understanding. "So I don't have to come to whatever party Georgie is talking about. I know this is weird. I didn't want to…I just wanted a cup of coffee."

Ethan looked up at him meaningfully. "I'm _sure_ that's true."

Dylan wanted to scream at him that he was the one who told him to go. But all the energy behind it died in a small sigh.

"Okay," he said instead, "I'm just going to—"

"Here's the address," Georgie slipped a torn off sheet of paper into Dylan's hand. Tomorrow at 7. I'm turning 18. So you better be there," Georgie pulled him in for a tight hug. "I missed you dude." Dylan thought of all the hugs he'd already given girls shorter than him today. He wasn't used to his face being buried in someone's shoulder. It just wasn't the right shoulder.

"Yeah, see you guys," he said, his eyes falling from Georgie's grin to Ethan's stare to the baby's fat cheeks. When he stepped outside he couldn't have been more grateful for a frozen gust of December that blew the air of the diner off of him.

He could feel them watching him from the windows inside, talking about him, analyzing him. It was hard to walk in a straight line with the knowledge. When he finally was far enough away to turn a corner he felt a curtain fall across his back. Somewhere ahead was Mike. He'd demand he drive him back to his hotel room and throw money behind any flight that could get him out of this time zone

When he made it back to Mr. Tweak's the doors were locked and he waited for one of the baristas to let him in. Mr. Tweak and Mike were sitting on the stools by the counter having a discussion that Dylan was sure he didn't want to be a part of.

"Hey," he said, waiting for Mike to look up. "Can you give me a ride back to the hotel?"

"Yeah," Mike grabbed his coat. After standing around another fifteen minutes to be thanked by Mr. Tweak they were off, sparing a wave to some die-hard fans who would probably catch pneumonia from sitting on the frozen cement so long.

"So it happened," Dylan said while they were stopped at a red light, "I ran into my old friends."

"Well that's good." Mike said either because he was only half-listening or was as naïve as Dylan had always assumed.

"No it's wasn't, it was horrible and awkward."

"Well now that part is over, you can get to the good part where you talk about what you've been up to."

"I don't think that's the way things work in real life."

"Why can't they? Because you won't let them."

They were silent for awhile on the highway and Dylan considered pulling out a cigarette just to piss Mike off.

"Georgie invited me to his birthday party."

"You should go," Mike said. "Because that's the stuff we have to do to stay alive. You know? To remember our cheeks are always warm."

Dylan couldn't stand another minute of Mike's sanctimonious tone. "What's_ going on_ with you?"

There was silence for a few minutes as they sat in traffic. Dylan watched Mike's fingers tap soundlessly against the steering wheel.

"It's been good to see my parents," he said softly. "It's good to be home. We have to remember that."

Dylan got out of the car and stood on the cement. He lit a cigarette and stared at the splitting dyed ends of Mike's hair. "We have a meeting with the tour manager January 10th at the label. So whatever soul searching you're doing, you'll need to wrap it up before then." He could feel himself regretting sounding so cold. But he needed to get a reaction out of Mike so he knew where they stood.

"I'll keep that in mind," Mike said through a strained laugh. "We both should."

Dylan stamped the cigarette in the street where the tires to Mike's car had been. Another night in the hotel room wasn't anything new. He tried to remember how it felt when it was.


	2. Chapter 2

_We had everything to say to each other, but no ways to say it_

_-Jonathan Safran Foer_

**x. **

Dylan had spent last night considering all the ways that Ethan had always expected so little of him. He'd stared at the white walls of the hotel, considering covering them in newspaper clippings then drawing symbols over top of them with Sharpie markers. The way he'd seen obsessed detectives trace serial killers in movies sometimes. He could maybe make out a pattern or come to some sort of conclusion as to how exactly he'd become such a big fucking disappointment to the only person whose opinion ever mattered to him.

At least he could do this one thing that Ethan didn't expect of him; he could show up to Georgie's birthday party. He probably would have gone anyway, even if Ethan hadn't made him feel more like a cardboard cut-out of a person; one-dimensional, easily deconstructed with a pair of scissors that could slice to the center of everything wrong with the world if they could just get their blades around him.

"I'm surprised by you Dylan. I thought you'd be on a plane by now." Mike said as he tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. "Cash out your bank account and trade it for a ticket with someone at the airport…or something." They'd stopped by Wallmart before coming here. Dylan hadn't known what to get Georgie, but hoped the iTunes gift card he had in his hand had been a pretty safe bet.

He grimaced a bit. Had he really become predictable to Mike Makowski? No, obviously not. He wasn't on a plane. He was sitting outside the address Georgie had scrawled on a sheet of paper for him. It was a brick townhouse with no identifying features outside.

"Well I'm surprised by the fact that we're both in South Park at all. So I guess this is just one big special memory for the both of us." he snapped.

"Maybe is it," Mike said tersely, not watching Dylan getting out of the car. He was tired of Mike's judgment filtering this whole experience for him. Making him think it was supposed to mean anything.

There weren't many cars parked on the street. Georgie answered the door as soon as he knocked, giving him the impression that he'd been watched through a window.

It was embarrassing enough being driven around by Mike as if he was his soccer mom. But it wasn't like he'd needed to drive his own car in the three years he'd been away. There had been planes and cabs and tour buses. He wished he could loudly point that out to everyone.

There were a surprising amount of 18-year-olds packed into the small living room. And every one of them turned their heads to stare at him. It was a hard room to read and he gripped the envelope in his hand and pushed it towards Georgie. "Happy birthday," he mumbled through what he hoped looked like a smile.

"Thanks dude," Georgie said, motioning for Dylan to have a seat among his friends. Ike offered him a shy wave before slinking an arm around Georgie. "We're all just filling up on pizza, you can grab a slice."

Dylan walked over to the dining room table and inspected the cardboard boxes until he found plain cheese. He imagined this whole party had been arranged by Ike, seeing as parties with pizza, friends, and cake weren't really par for the course when your parents were societal fuck-ups who still found time to complain about how you dressed through the small pin-hole of original thought in their brains. Most of the teenagers were gathered around the TV screen yelling profanities at one another as they took turns on the PS4 controllers. He saw cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon lining the tables and tried to remember the special feeling of getting away with something when he used to drink underage. That'd gone away pretty quickly after touring with 40 year-old record executives and tour managers who'd buy them whatever the hell they asked for. Sometimes without asking for it…they did have an image the record company wanted them to maintain.

"So you both live here?" he said, sitting on a chair next to a table covered in poorly gift-wrapped presents.

Ike laughed and raised an eyebrow, "not me," he said quickly.

"Well, this is Henrietta's place..." Georgie said cryptically, "technically, her parents pay the rent and stuff."

Dylan felt a weird sensation run through and fought the urge to glance over his shoulder. There was no way Henrietta was here. He'd have seen her…heard her.

"Mostly it's just me, Ethan, and Dev."

"The baby?" Dylan asked flatly.

This was all beginning to paint a picture of a fairly fucked-up scenario. He was left with the dissonant feeling of wanting to know everything all at once and wanting to leave the house entirely and never hear another word about it.

"Yeah," Georgie said casually, drawing his thumb over pursed lips. "But listen, everyone is really excited to hear about how you played at Warped Tour last summer, do you think you'd be up for answering a few questions?" he asked, already standing and leading Dylan back into the living room.

"O…kay." Dylan said, following his younger friend to a sofa by the TV. One of the guys sitting on the floor passed Dylan a beer before taking a picture of him covertly with his phone. Dylan had to resist what had become a natural reflex of holding his hand over his face as he turned his head away. He looked uneasy as he settled onto the edge of the sofa and prepared himself for his onslaught. Luckily they were all flattering questions like, had he ever met so-and-so, could he get them tickets to some upcoming show, could he give them free backstage tickets to see some other band. They all kept talking over one another, then stopping, enrapt by his one-sentence answers, then battled again to get their questions asked.

At one point he noticed Ethan walk into the kitchen, heat up a bottle and lean against the counter as he chewed on the edge of a cold piece of pizza. He was wearing his old Cure shirt which still hung loosely over his chest. He looked so tired and Dylan wondered if the party was keeping him or the baby awake when they'd normally be sleeping. He tried not to care, especially when Ethan disappeared down the hallway again without so much as a glance in his direction.

By the time Georgie had pulled Ike into his lap and several of the teenagers had decided to take off, Dylan was considering calling Mike for a ride back to the hotel. But the pull of the strangeness of everything around him was too strong. He stood up and walked down the hallway to where he assumed Ethan must be. Maybe they could talk and catch up like Mike had suggested. Maybe Ethan would have a slew of complimentary questions to ask him as well. Maybe everything really wasn't as awkward and terrible as he'd built it up in his head to be.

The first door he pushed revealed a cluttered bed he recognized from Henrietta's parents house. It was basically a recreation of her bedroom, but with everything smashed together to fit in the tinier space. Her vanity was touching the one side of her bed. Make-up and clothes were everywhere, forming their own level of the floor. A baggie with crumbs of weed lay across a McDonald's bag on the dresser and black nail polish was turned on its side, spilling onto the paper as well.

"What do you want?" Ethan said from behind him. Dylan jerked back away from him, his chest pounding in his ears.

"Jesus! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

Ethan shrugged and didn't look ashamed. "Were you looking for the _front_ door?"

Dylan saw the out that Ethan was giving him and didn't give a damn. "No, I was looking for _you_."

"Here I am."

Dylan had forgotten Ethan's special way of making anyone feel ridiculous. But what Ethan didn't realize was that Dylan wasn't some 17-year-old kid anymore. He'd been to three continents since they'd last looked at one another. He'd been to god knows how many cities and stood in front of audiences that swelled to five times the population of South Park.

"Why can't we talk—"

"We are talking—"

Dylan drug a hand through his bangs. "Like Georgie and I can?"

"You know why."

Ethan leaned against the frame of Henrietta's room and stared up at the ceiling like maybe someone would throw him a rope ladder and he could climb onto the roof.

"Ethan please."

Ethan jerked his head down and Dylan was hopeful that he was actually getting through. But after a second he realized the baby crying in the next room had brought Ethan back to reality.

"Where _is_ Henrietta?" Dylan asked as he followed the taller boy into a another room further down the hall.

Ethan ignored him, choosing instead to lift the baby out of the crib. She clung her little fists around his neck and watched the hoop though Ethan's ear dangle back and forth.

"You need to go to sleep Devy," he mumbled as he rocked her in his arms. Her wide eyes blinked and focused in on Dylan over Ethan's shoulder. He knew how she felt; safe and heavy in Ethan's arms, he wanted his eyes to slide shut as hers did. It wasn't fair that he should be reduced to being jealous of a one-year-old.

"God I bet you're loving this," he said, noticing all at once that the room the baby crib was in also served at Ethan's. There was a futon bed against one wall and unopened boxes of records labeled methodically in his handwriting. A turntable was sitting on the floor by the window.

"What are you talking about?" Ethan turned around so that Dylan could no longer tell if the baby was awake or sleeping.

"The evolution is complete; you're finally Daddy Ethan" Dylan sneered, "you're living the dream."

"Some dream I must have had." Ethan said sarcastically before glancing unconsciously at his boxed record collection. Dylan followed his gaze. They could have been musicians together, actual artists…not like him and Mike were. They still could be if Ethan would fight for it.

"You worry about everyone else's life so you don't have to think about your own. It's written all over your face."

"You don't know a damn thing," Ethan said, laying the now sleeping baby back into the crib. "In fact you can just fuck off Dylan." Dylan hated the way Ethan mouthed the word "fuck" as if the baby was going to wake up and understand that profanity was taking place.

Ethan stood between Dylan and the crib, his arms crossed over his chest—a stereotypical image of someone on the defensive. It was hard not to feel a pang of regret in his chest when he saw the bags under Ethan's eyes and the way his shoulders hunched together. Maybe he wasn't being fair. Maybe, but why did he still feel so righteous in everything he said? He was like Jerry in _The Chocolate War_…daring to disturb this fucked-up universe he'd walked back into.

"Seriously, go. Who are you to me?," Ethan said with a wave of his hand, "just some kid I once knew."

It was almost laughable how Ethan wasn't able to pull off saying that with a shred of sincerity. Dylan raised an eyebrow, "we're talking about _you_ and your lack of—"

"Well look what little frontman faggot decided to party crash."

Dylan reeled around to find Henrietta's disdainful frown, her lips a solid line of purple lipstick. She was standing in the hallway with a cigarette lit and hanging from its holder, ashes falling freely to the carpet. The dress Dylan was used to seeing her in was replaced in an oversized black Rammstein t-shirt and leggings. She looked like she must be rail thin underneath of it from the way the fabric fell over her sharp collarbones.

"I was invited," he said, looking searching over her shoulder for Georgie, but only succeeding in making eye contact with Damian chugging a beer at the end of the hallway.

"You shouldn't have been. It's not Georgie's apartment, it's mine." Dylan watched the way her shoulders pinched together for a second and her fingers tapped frantically against the cigarette holder.

"Whatever," he mumbled. He had a home where no one talked to him, where the only person who ever looked tired or thin was him. He should go back there anyway. "I get it; you all want to be dicks."

"Yeah that's right," Henrietta said, rolling her eyes, "because I'm the one that abandoned you to sell out like some _whore_ who needed his fix."

"Yeah," Dylan looked pointedly over at Damian and back at Henrietta, "that description seems _pretty_ accurate actually."

Henrietta shoved him back against the door with a gargled grunt that was lost in the sound of Dylan's head slamming into the wall.

Ethan's hand clamped down on his shoulder and in a whirl of color and motion he had shut and locked the bedroom door. Dylan's hand held the back of his head while he blinked away the inky blobs from his field of vision. On the other side of the door Henrietta was bitching loudly through the wood. As if in response, the baby wailed from the crib, making Dylan's lightheadedness from the impact hard to keep at bay.

"I'm fine," Dylan said tersely, batting Ethan's hands away as he leaned against the wall. Barely back in South Park 24-hours and someone couldn't handle the fact that he wasn't bruised and bleeding. He tried to tell himself that this wasn't like before. He _was_ fine.

Ethan's hand was on his arm again, clutching lightly over the stupid jacket he'd gotten at a boutique in London while they toured in the UK. It had too many zippers and pockets that weren't really pockets and he felt stupid for wearing it and he wondered if Ethan thought it was stupid too. Ethan looked like he was going to say something but Henrietta's kick to the door made him draw his hand away.

"I'll be back," he said either to the baby or to Dylan.

Dylan watched him open the door halfway and slide out of the room. He tried to make out the words he was shouting over Henrietta through the baby's shrieks. Something about the baby he thought. He heard Damian join in and then Georgie. But mostly he didn't want to think about that anymore; about hallways or walls or bedroom floors and bleeding heads. He just wanted to make the baby stop crying. He stood over the crib looked down at her red wrinkled face.

This was all just a series of unfortunate events. Just like the rest of his life. He sucked in too much air and choked a bit before he really started to cry. And the more he did it, the less the baby seemed to want to. She was staring at him with tears still stuck to her chin as he leaned on the crib wanting very desperately to calm down. This wasn't something that he did. In the three years he'd been out of South Park there hadn't been a need to cry. Everything was a blur of soundchecks and paychecks, of stages and hotels, faceless fans and nameless reporters. He hadn't had to think in years. He once read a book that said how nice it was to feel nothing and still get full credit for being alive. Right now it felt like some sort of emotional debt collector was at the door for all that time that nothing mattered.

Things were quieting down in the hall and he heard the front door slam, shaking the thin walls of the room. He drew a long breath and wiped his face hastily on the sleeve of the jacket that he hated. The baby was tugging on one of the zippers hanging off of it through the bars of the crib but it wasn't going anywhere.

The bedroom door clicked open again and Ethan was poised to lift the baby out of the crib but paused at the unexpected silence of the room. Dylan could feel him staring at his back and he knew he had to say something to assure Ethan that he hadn't smothered the baby with a pillow or something.

"She's fine," he said with his back still hunched over the crib. Ethan walked to the end of the crib and looked down at them both.

"Is your head okay?" Ethan sounded unsure, like maybe Dylan had been hurt worse than it'd appeared.

Of course, if he was visually upset it must be because a physical injury was forcing the reaction. Ethan had stopped acknowledging that Dylan had any feelings at all after he'd accused him of fucking Mike for cash three years ago.

"Probably not," Dylan said through his tears with a sarcastic laugh. His head probably hadn't been 'okay' in awhile.

"Dylan," Ethan said, his fingers tracing over the edge of the crib to touch Dylan's hands. "Come sit down on my bed with me." Dylan nodded and wondered if Ethan was going to keep his hand there, going to actually hold his hand. But slid his fingers up to pull the cuff of Dylan's sleeve and lead him to the bed.

They sat on the futon and Dylan wiped his face again more angrily than before.

"Look," Ethan began, "it's good to see you, in a way."

Dylan laughed, "great."

"I mean, it was just…" Ethan took a breath and tried again. "It felt like hell when you stopped answering my phonecalls, that's just the truth. So if I was unresponsive, well." Ethan brushed two loose curls behind his ears. "I don't know and then things got out of control here with Henrietta and my mom."

"What do you mean," Dylan asked automatically.

"My mom died last year," Ethan said matter-of-factly. "The stupid bitch couldn't have been bothered to take a life insurance policy and the medical bills that she left me with have been…crippling to say least. I've been bumped up to manager at the record store but that barely covers my car, gas, and food. I guess that's when I moved in here with Henrietta. Free rent in exchange for what I thought would be occasionally babysitting when I wasn't at work. And then…" Ethan paused, too distracted by Dylan's hunched pose and quiet tears to continue. He sat closer to his old friend and wrapped an arm around him. "Just calm down, please. God. I'm sorry she shoved you. We all know what you've…" Ethan looked closely at Dylan, the way his green eyes wouldn't blink away from the floor, "no one should ever touch a hair on your head."

Dylan looked up at him, at Ethan's guarded expression and the way his words were quiet but severe. Was there one person on this whole hellscape of a planet who ever really cared whether he was sad or happy, and had it only ever been Ethan?

Ethan turned away from Dylan, their faces too close together when they were sitting this close, so soon after so long. He cleared his throat. "But Henrietta, she's…not thinking straight. She's…" He looked uncertain about exposing the information that Dylan was quickly putting together on his own. "Damian has gotten her addicted to heroin. It's been going on for awhile now and…I don't know….it's better for all of us when she's not here, you know?"

"What?" Dylan said miserably, covering his face with his hands. "Jesus Christ." He had the strangest sensation that while he'd been jetsetting these past few years someone had been pouring cement around the feet of his friends, maybe trying to drown them, maybe they already had.

"Listen, I'm," Ethan took a breath and Dylan could tell he was going to suddenly try and make this all seem okay. "I'm doing my best to keep everything together. And Georgie helps too. There's just no controlling her when she's with him."

"What are we going to do?" Dylan asked, wondering if it was too soon to use the word 'we' and mean the two of them together. His hand itched into his back pocket for his cigarettes.

"You can't…" Ethan said quickly before Dylan had managed to retrieve his lighter, "the baby. Just, here." He plucked the cigarette pack from Dylan's fingers and held his hand instead. "It's a lot, I know. But it didn't happen all at once like you're hearing it now. It's been months, and there are days where everything is okay. And Dev, she's really sweet."

They sat like that on Ethan's bed for awhile, just breathing together with their fingers interlaced. Dylan felt that if the whole house burned down around them he wouldn't move. It was all so precious. He was afraid too big an exhale might blow Ethan away.


End file.
